Ashes (11 page)

“It’s a well-known fact that alcohol, consumed in sufficient quantities, makes people careless. It takes away that bit of your mind that tells you to keep your mouth shut. What I’m saying in a roundabout way is that you fucked up, Henry. Big time.

“Now, you can choose Plan A or Plan B. Plan A is, I ask questions, and you tell me what I want to know. Plan B, I ask questions, you don’t answer, and I
make
you tell me what I want to know.” He pointed the gun at Connolly, watched Connolly turn white and shake his head. “You make the call. It’s up to you, though I must say, if it’s Plan B,” Sean smiled. “That’s fine by me.”

He stood. “I’m going to take the tape off. And if you scream, or if you make me think you’re going to scream...” He placed the gun’s muzzle against the center of Connolly’s forehead. “Understand?”

Connolly’s nod was faint — as if he feared his movement might set the gun off — but it was there.

He took the tape off Connolly’s mouth. Connolly took in a shuddering breath. “Please, Sam, whoever you are. I don’t know anything, I really don’t.”

He said nothing, let Connolly dig himself in a little deeper.

Connolly must have sensed that protestations of ignorance weren’t going to help. “Please let me go. I have a wife and a, uh, little girl.”

“What are their names? Where’s your ring?” Sean held up Connolly’s wallet. The plastic insert contained two photos, both of Connolly and his farmboy buddies looking thoroughly shitfaced. “Where’s the picture of the family?” He tossed the wallet to the floor. “I don’t like bullshit. Not at all. You’d do better to spare me your lies and we can get this unpleasantness over with.”

Connolly lost it a bit. “Who are you, anyway? What are you, some kind of Fed? You can’t keep me here like this! I know my rights! You got nothing on me. I want a lawyer and —”

Sean felt a wave of disgust ripple along his skin. Connolly was still yammering about lawyers and constitutional rights and suing somebody.  Cold fire flared up in Sean's brain; he switched the gun to his left hand and slammed his right fist into Connolly’s stomach.

Connolly’s words cut off as if he’d been shot. All the color drained out of his face, his eyes rolled back and his mouth turned into a tragedy-mask grimace as he fought to get his breath back. He finally managed to drag in a deep breath, and as he expelled it he also vomited up those beers that had gotten him in trouble.

Sean waited for Connolly to get some control back, watching calmly as some of the moldy-cheese color left Connolly’s face. When he judged that Connolly was able to listen, Sean grabbed him by the hair and turned Connolly’s face up toward his own. “You disgust me. Spear carrier for your little groups. Making your plots and bitching about the G. Playing the big man, so proud of what you helped happen in Los Angeles, and when you’re caught, what do you do? Beg for your constitutional rights. If you stood up for what you believed in, I could respect that. But you’re just a nothing.

“And now listen to me,
nothing.
I’m not John Law. You have no rights with me. You can’t cut any deals. All you can do is tell me what I want to know.”

Connolly jerked his head away, defiance glaring in his eyes. Was that bravery or stupidity, or some combination? Likely the latter. “And what if I don’t talk? If you kill me, you’ll never find out what you want to know.”

Sean laughed. Connolly, who clearly considered this his trump card, looked ill and dismayed. Sean grinned at Connolly, who started trying to squirm back in his chair. “Oh, look, it’s trying to think! Here, Henry, let me put things in perspective for you.”

He sealed Connolly’s mouth with the tape again and holstered the gun. He stepped behind Connolly, out of his prisoner’s field of vision. Almost before Connolly knew it, Sean took the cable cutters from his back pocket, slipped the blades around Connolly’s right pinkie finger at the joint. There was a brittle snap, like shears through a thick rose cane, and Connolly’s finger fell to the tarp.

Connolly howled behind the tape, twisted in his bonds. His remaining fingers wiggled frantically. Blood from the severed digit pattered onto the tarp.

Sean stepped into Connolly’s view once more. “Now,” he said with a smile that promised many things, none of them good. “Let’s talk.”

* * *

F
orty-five minutes and three fingers later, Sean had what he wanted.

“Any more to add on that subject? Or should I go for a thumb next?”

“That’s all I know, I swear.” Connolly groaned. “Believe me.”

He turned Connolly’s face back up towards his again, looked into his eyes. “I believe you,” he said quietly.

Connolly’s head sagged down onto his chest, which hitched with the beginning of sobs. “Can’t you give me something for my hands? It really hurts.”

“Do you expect me to feel sorry for you? You helped kill 361 people, and for what?”

“I didn’t blow the place up! All I did was —”

“Help with the plans and the coordination. Do your bit. You’re a good soldier, Henry.” He walked behind Connolly, took the gun from his holster and the suppresser from his bag, began screwing the suppresser onto the barrel. “But you’ve been cooperative. I thank you. Jennifer thanks you, too.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” He didn’t want to discuss Jennifer with Connolly.

“Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone about you. I won’t talk, I swear.”

“I know,” Sean said, and shot Connolly in the back of the head. Connolly’s fingers — the ones that were left — twitched a bit, then the body sagged lifelessly in its bonds.

He gazed pensively at Connolly’s corpse for a moment or two. An observer might have thought he was regretting his actions of the past hour. He was thinking that the worst part about being outside was that he could not simply make a phone call and have someone take care of the mess. He’d have to clean it up himself.

But that was no problem. After all, he’d done it before.

J
ennifer did not realize how much she had been dreading Christmas until her plane touched down in Fresno. It had been raining in Vancouver; in Fresno it was sunny and mild, but the sunlight seemed unreal. After the rich ocean and pine scent of Haven Cove the air in Fresno felt stale, used up. Her nerve endings seemed to stretch out beyond her skin; she caught herself flinching when people moved close to her.

Out of the sunlight and into the relative dimness of the airport terminal. When she got to baggage claim she craned her neck, searching through the crowds, and then saw her mother waving at her frantically. “Hey Mom,” she said and put her arms around her mother, relieved that she felt genuine gladness to see her again.

“Jen, Jen.” Her mother broke the embrace, held Jennifer at arm’s length, looking her over. “It’s good to see you, honey. God, I’ve missed you.”

“Same here,” Jennifer said, and meant it.

* * *

S
he stayed in the spare room of her mother and stepfather’s house. Once Cindy and Jim had left home, the folks had sold the old place and moved to a smaller, two-bedroom house. Which meant the spare room held no memories for her. Neutral carpet, off-white walls, a framed print of a Monet painting on the wall. A twin bed, the mattress stiff, the nap on the chenille bedspread still fresh. Only the guest towels stacked at the foot of the bed were familiar. Pink and green, bought for the bathroom back at the old house, their texture rough now, the hem at the ends partly unraveled. The towels were the only thing that made this room different from a hotel.

The first night was good. Jim and his family were in town, staying at a hotel nearby, and that night all of them went to dinner at a steakhouse. Jennifer told them about Canada, peppering her talk with amusing anecdotes from work and waxing enthusiastic about the local scenery. At times it seemed that her chatter was feverish, that she was using it to keep from talking about something else. But after all, they did want to know about Haven Cove and her new life there. Why not tell them?

She soon wished that she had rationed her talk more carefully. The next day she had little to say. But plenty to hear. From her mother.
Oh Jen, I do wish you hadn’t moved so far away. I worry about you. Oh Jen, I do wish you’d call and write more often. Oh Jen, I do wish you’d eat more, you’re still so thin. Oh Jen, when do you think you’re going to meet some nice young man and have a family? I’m not getting any younger, you know, and I’d just love another grandchild.

Plenty to hear from brother Jim the CPA as well.
So Jen, how much did you end up getting? That include royalties? So Jen, how you managing the taxes up there in Canada? I hear the taxes are really a nightmare, or is that different with you being an American and all? You are still an American? Hey, just kidding.

They meant well, they loved her, they wanted only the best for her, and God, they drove her
insane.

Heedless of the gas bill, she cranked up the heat on the outdoor pool and swam tirelessly. When she lay on the inflatable chaise lounge with her sunglasses on she could pretend to be asleep and avoid her mother’s chatter. Even better was swimming, diving underwater so she didn’t have to hear anything from the outside world, could disappear into a world of smooth concrete walls and crystal blue water.

She told her mother not to worry, everything was fine. And above all, smiled. Smiled through the days leading up to Christmas, smiled through the church service at First Episcopalian, smiled through the gift-giving and the holiday dinner: ham and mashed potatoes and gingerbread. Smiled. It was something she was getting very good at.

Christmas evening, and Cindy called. “Jen, it’s your sister,” her mother said and handed Jennifer the phone.

She took the cordless into the spare bedroom, where the suitcase was already mostly packed. Tomorrow she was bound for Los Angeles for two days, to see Amber LaSalle, and then back up to Haven Cove. Not soon enough.

“Hey, Cindy Lou Who. Merry Christmas, little sister,” Jennifer said.

“The fleas on my dog,” Cindy said and they both laughed. When Cindy was little, she’d misheard the song “Feliz Navidad” as “the fleas on my dog” and it still amused them. “I wish I could be there.”

Jennifer was a moment replying. The smile she’d worn since she’d arrived in Fresno vanished, and she nearly sighed with relief as the muscles of her face relaxed. “I wish you could be here too.” Her voice was quieter than it had been the last few days.

“How’s Mom? Hovering?”

“Practically forcing food down my throat.”

“At least you had her good ham. Remember how my turkey was underdone last year? This year I burnt it.”

“The Thomson sisters aren’t known for their cooking. At least the turkeys balance out. Maybe next year.”

“Maybe.”

They talked about gifts. What clothes their mother had given them, and what they would exchange those clothes for. Cindy’s twins liked the boxes more than the toys this year. Cindy’s mother-in-law had done the Christmas dinner dishes and now Cindy probably wouldn’t find most of her utensils for another month.

Jennifer said again: “I wish you could be here, Cin.”

She meant it. Because only Cindy really understood. Only Cindy knew how it had been, at least those first few days. Jennifer had told her mother and Jim and all the others that she didn’t want to talk about it, but even if she had wanted to, what could she say? Where would she even start?
I walked down the hall to make some copies and on my way back, ka-boom! Half the building was gone, just like that! Oh, and I saw this one guy get electrocuted, and a bunch of other people all got turned into hamburger by broken glass. This nice guy who helped me down the stairs? Got his neck broken. And when I did get out, the whole building was toppling down. A real frying-pan-into-the-fire situation, don’t you think? So this nice fireman saves me. And here’s the kicker — everyone’s acting like I’m some kind of hero when I didn’t do shit. One minute I’m on this pedestal, my picture on every magazine cover,
on fucking T-shirts
, and the next minute I’m like a leper or something. I sell my story so I can get some money and go somewhere I can get some peace and quiet and I get phone calls from people calling me a fame whore. No, wait, here’s the real kicker. I’m in this pretty town that I like a lot and I’ve got a sweet neighbor but none of it’s real to me. Most of the time nothing’s real to me and when it is, like this Christmas, it drives me nuts. And God I don’t know why. I really don’t.

“Jen, you there?” Cindy must have asked her something.

“Sorry, I spaced there for a moment.”

“I asked if you were OK.”

She said the first thing she could think of. “I’m fine, Cin. I’m fine.”

Saying
I’m fine
was like the smiling. She was getting very good at it.

* * *

F
our days later, back in Haven Cove. Sitting at her desk at Salto Family, playing solitaire on the computer. 10:30 a.m. and the phones hadn’t rung once. Tomorrow night was New Year’s Eve, and it seemed the entire mining industry, at least in British Columbia, had closed up shop and said
See you next year!

New Year’s Eve. It rang a chord in her memory, but she was so distracted by Christmas she couldn’t think of what it meant. She still felt  fidgety, a hangover not from last night's wine but from those days in Los Angeles, telling her story several times over to the ghostwriter. Felt on edge because the peace she had expected to find on her return had not materialized. In sunny California she had longed for the coolness of British Columbia. In the crowded cities she had thought of the quaint homes and the pines. Now that she was back it all seemed fake, like Main Street at Disneyland. She walked down the street and half expected Mickey and Donald to show up.

“Oh there's no place like home for the holidays,” sang out a voice, and Alex Salto was there. His tie had a picture of the Grinch on it. “Glad you’re back.”

“Glad to be back.”

“You haven’t forgotten about the party tomorrow night? Up at my mountain place? I think the girls are getting a limo, why don’t you catch a ride with them?”